


Sidewalk Sundae Strawberry Surprise

by arestlesswind



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Genderbending, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 07:16:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arestlesswind/pseuds/arestlesswind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a hot summer day. Will’s tired. Hannibal makes her ice cream. (Sundae is probably people.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sidewalk Sundae Strawberry Surprise

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write adorable cutesy fluff after the HEARTBREAKING EMOTIONAL TRAUMA of Trou Normand. Alicia prompted "SUNDAE IS PEOPLE." That's it - I make no bones about it as anything else.
> 
> Kinda sorta part of my girl!Will Graham fic universe, which you can see more of at the link. I mean. If you want to. That much creepier fic will be posted when the season's over. (http://dreamsthroughthenoise.tumblr.com/tagged/girl!will%20graham)
> 
> Title from “Ice Cream Man” by Tom Waits because it’s that kind of night and oh god, I am so sorry. It was either this or Sarah “your love is better than ice cream” McLachlan, so.

“You made me ice cream,” Will says.

Hannibal glances up from scooping round, hefty chunks of vanilla out of the machine. “Indeed I did,” he says cheerfully. “More specifically, a classic sundae with whipped cream, fresh Maraschino cherries, and spread with pre-sugared fruit syrup.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“Do we need one?”

Will shrugs and props her elbows against the counter, hand drumming aimless atop the other. “I guess not.”

“I’d be extremely remiss not to offer you dessert after requesting your company. And,” Hannibal adds, setting down the scoop and plucking up a bowl of thick red syrup, “it’s the ideal time of year for sundaes.”

Middle of August, sweat pooling in rivets of skin, glasses sliding down her nose, crushed bottled water in the back pocket of her jeans. Will would rather coats and hats and layers and the dull ache of cold between her bones. Sweat reminds her too much of dreams.

She’d stripped down to her tank top once she hit the door for relief, soaking in the cool air. Also, because she very, very much enjoys the feeling of Hannibal’s eyes trailing over her exposed skin.

Will watches him drain the syrup in precise motions, creating intricate patterns, red on white. _(blood on snow, sheets, pillows; colors are tainted_ )

“I like these,” she says, only a little absently. “Our…lunches.”

It’s not the first time Hannibal’s invited her to drive the hour to Baltimore, or made the trip to her. Far from. But dinner is their norm, convenient, easily planned in the face of late nights and unpredictable schedules and professional responsibilities. Slowness, comfort; a full stomach, a long hot shower at the end of a day, crawling into bed, soft kisses and gentle hands. Lunch is new, impromptu, quicker and not so grandiose an affair. A check-in, an hour or two to breathe before jettisoning uncontrolled back into.

And it means Will needn’t wait as long to be with Hannibal again. Counts the distance in hours, not days.

Even a day is too long.

“So do I,” Hannibal agrees. “I’m grateful you had the time.”

“You and me both.”

Will watches as he finishes, sets down the bowl. Expertly places a cherry atop the whipped cream, situated perfect in the center, stem a little tilted.

“It makes the days more bearable when I know I’ll be seeing you,” she says.

Hannibal smiles, one of those she knows and counts herself privileged to see ( _deep and broad, fond, wickedness glinting at the curved corner_ ). He wipes his hands clean on a dish towel.

“Then I’m glad of that, too,” and when he leans over to kiss her Will meets him halfway.

It’s, of course, the most delicious sundae Will’s had. She remembers hot Louisiana days, side-stand ice cream cones for sale, five dollars in change in her back pocket, the brief taste of joy on her tongue. She and Hannibal sit at the kitchen counter, savoring taste and silence.

She’s halfway finished when Hannibal motions at her chin, stained with a small off-white spot, melting down a trail.

 _“Shit.”_ Will twists in her seat looking for napkins, towel. Sloppy crude ignorant eating of his meticulously prepared gift, _in his own kitchen._ Sitting knee-to-knee with pristine, elegant, cultured, and judging. “I’m…sorry, dammit, do you…?”

She’s still navigating this oh so very new interaction. She wants to impress and please Hannibal, not cause him to regret, oh so very much.

“No apology necessary. A meal prone to mess.”

Although his passive expression never shifts, there's something like a calculation in the keenness of Hannibal's eyes.

“Do you need something?”

“Please. I mean, if you don’t mind.”

A mercurial tilt of his head. “Not at all.”

With that, Hannibal shifts toward her, five fingers of one hand curling over the width of her shoulder. Bare skin on bare skin, deft touch, and Will represses her instinctual shiver. Employing as much tenderness as he would to an exquisite work of art, Hannibal leans down, presses his mouth against her chin, and – _and licks at the ice cream with his tongue._

Will starts with surprise, but Hannibal’s grip on her shoulder tightens down, not enough to hurt, just enough to ensure the message ( _stay_ ). “Ummmm,” she manages, mind and body both racing to catch up. “Ahh. _Okay,_ ” and it’s a whisper, because suddenly at his command her skin stretches painfully tight, her cheeks burn a flush, and something twists low and harsh and sweet in her stomach. Hannibal’s lips are cool from the sundae but his breath blooms warm, prickling goosebumps in her responsive flesh, it’s the most wonderfully disconcerting of contrasts – his tongue curling as he cleans, slick and rough, the lightest, gentlest pressure. Will shifts uncomfortably, in that way so fervent it warps around to _good, so good._

In response Hannibal’s other hand comes to rest at her side, beneath the tender flesh of her arm to hold her firm. She makes a soft sound without meaning to and feels Hannibal’s lips curve. He pushes closer, a knee between her legs, withdraws his tongue only to attend the corners of her lips, the inner front where she eats. He works with utter dedication until every trace of vanilla is gone, Will’s mouth soothed over with saliva in its place.

It’s only when he pulls away she can even try to catch her breath. Which she does try, without much success. She stares at him, a little shakily, as he adjusts back in his chair and dabs at his mouth with a corner handkerchief.

“Well,” Will says. “That…wasn’t what I expected.”

Hannibal folds the handkerchief into four squares and replaces it in his pocket. “Usually I don’t believe in mixing one’s pleasures,” he says. “But for you, my dear Will, I can make an exception.”

Will stares down at her sundae and finds herself remarkably uninterested in finishing. “Do you want to make that exception now?” she hesitates, tentative, testing the tensioned waters with false bluster.

Hannibal smiles. “Finish your dessert,” he says calmly, and picks up his spoon.


End file.
